February 3, 2003

"Notes from Underground" by Fyodor Dostoevsky: "I am a sick man. I am a spiteful man... I am an unattractive man."

Those, allowing for minor differences in translation, are the opening lines from Dostoevsky's brilliant masterpiece, "Notes from Underground." The narrator is an antisocial sort, having secluded himself in a room for nearly 20 years, avoiding people and reflecting on life, existence, and the nature of man. If not for Dostoevsky having died long ago, I would have thought he was spying on me.

The book is divided into two sections. The first part, entitled "Underground", has the narrator address the reader directly as if holding a conversation, laying open the journal entries of a tormented mind. Several topics are discussed, most notably man's free will and the idea of revenge. One highlight is the narrator's obsession with trying to avenge a perceived slight on the part of a police officer who ignored him in the aftermath of a barroom disturbance. He plots to bump into the officer on the street; to literally collide with him, refusing to step aside. His desire to be acknowledged by his imaginary nemesis symbolizes his need to prove, and in turn validate, his existence.

The second part, "Apropos of Wet Snow", recalls a moment from the narrator's past when he reached out for human contact. Yet despite his best intentions, he is never able to achieve a meaningful relationship. Upon attending a farewell dinner for an old schoolmate, the narrator alienates and ridicules all his former associates due to his own feelings of inadequacy. He later befriends a prostitute named Liza only to spurn her love and destroy the poor soul he first ventured to save. It's a beautifully vivid portrayal of isolation, self-doubt, and regret.

"Notes from Underground" is the kind of book that makes life worth living. It's creative bliss. Everything that 70 Proof holds dear is contained within its pages. It's a staggering accomplishment; the type of profound genius that everyone who has ever put pen to paper should strive to achieve. We gladly bestow upon it our highest possible recommendation. The foundation of the Top Ten has just been shaken.

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"The Death of Ivan Ilyich" by Leo Tolstoy: Ivan Ilyich is a 45-year-old Russian magistrate stuck in a life not his own. He no longer loves his wife. His children are strangers to him. Work is all that matters. He lives for his work. The only other joy he has is in decorating his apartment. What better way to demonstrate his importance, and the fruits of his labor, than with an audacious and envied home?

One day Ivan is instructing workmen how to properly hang draperies when he slips from a ladder. He manages to catch himself without falling, but he does bang his side rather severely. It's just a bruise. He thinks nothing of it. His life doesn't change.

Then comes the pain. Ivan is soon in constant agony, a condition that only further strains his relationship with his wife and family. Doctors are uncertain as to the cause of the misery, splitting blame between either a floating kidney or a malfunction of the large intestine. Nothing helps. Ivan's health begins to rapidly deteriorate. The last few days of his life are spent in bed, delirious with pain, trying to figure out if he lived a proper life. The fear of death is maddening. Ivan is alone and frightened, sharing his anguish with no one. It's only in his final moments that he realizes the meaning of it all.

Tolstoy opens the book with coworkers reading about the death of Ivan Ilyich in the newspaper. Of course, their only real concern is who will be promoted to take his now vacant position and whether or not his passing will interfere with their regular card game. Pyotr Ivanovich, a fellow member of the Court of Justice alongside Ivan, pays a visit to the dead man's home. There he encounters the widow, who is preoccupied more with pensions than the memory of her husband; sees the lovely daughter and her well-to-do fiancee; and comes face to face with Ivan's young, grieving son, still wearing the emotional scars from the death of his father. It's through Ivanovich that Tolstoy introduces us to Ivan Ilyich, allowing us to see the world left behind before recounting the life of the man. It's a marvelous device.

All we ask of great literature is to share the burden of existence. Writers should seek to investigate the depths of man and explore the human condition. Few have done it any better than Tolstoy has with "The Death of Ivan Ilyich." This is what it's all about.

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